


Hold Me Up, Tie Me Down

by queenofkadara



Series: The Griffon and the Halla: Blackwall & Arya Lavellan [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Also known as "Subwall" LOL, Dom/sub, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Literally almost 10k words of FLUFFY SMUT AND MUTUAL BLACKWALL/LAVELLAN ADORATION, Post-Trespasser, Smut, submissive blackwall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 22:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16606697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofkadara/pseuds/queenofkadara
Summary: Blackwall sighs and bows his head before giving the required response: "Yes, mistress."Arya smiles wickedly, and Blackwall bites the inside of his cheek to hide his grin. He has always approved of his wily elven wife in the role of command, and he’s always been happy to obey her orders. But he anticipates thatthisnew role will be a special kind of torture at her hands.Little does he know that he will, in fact, suffer most of this torture kneeling at her feet.





	Hold Me Up, Tie Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by that beautiful flirt line in Haven that goes as follows.
> 
> Blackwall: You have the world at your feet, myself included.  
> Lavellan: At my feet? I could get used to having you there.  
> Blackwall: [APPROVES SO HARD THAT HIS BEAUTIFUL BEARDED HEAD EXPLODES]

Hold me up, tie me down  
‘Cause I never want to leave your side  
Swear to never let you down  
And it’s been eating me alive  
You can take me home  
You can never let me go  
Hold me up, hold me up  
And tie me, tie me down 

[ \-- “Tie Me Down” by Gryffin & Elley Duhé](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yzr4vItHf24)  
************

It’s been almost a year since the Exalted Council, and almost a year since Arya lost her left arm.

Being the fiercely independent woman that she is, she’s learned to do almost everything with her one remaining arm, and she barely ever asks for help anymore.

So when Arya _does_ ask for help, Blackwall comes running. 

“Blackwall? I need a hand!”

Her shouted request is quite literal, and it carries down to him as he steps through the door that leads from the Great Hall into her quarters. Alarmed by the rare request, he vaults up the stairs three by three, then bursts through the bedroom door.

She’s sitting at the vanity in her dressing gown, looking completely at ease, but he hurries to her side nonetheless. “Are you all right?” he demands.

She looks up at him in surprise. “Yes, of course. Can you fetch that for me?” She points vaguely to a spot on the floor about three paces away from her left foot, then shrugs off the left sleeve of her dressing gown and begins fastening her everyday prosthetic to the stump of her left arm. 

Confused, Blackwall looks at the ground. A carved wooden comb lies there, likely where she knocked it off the table.

He picks it up and holds it out to her, and she takes it and places it on the vanity before tightening the straps of her prosthetic around her bicep. “Thank you,” she says distractedly, then finally looks up at him.

Her violet eyes widen as she takes in his expression. “You look pale! What’s wrong? Are you ill?” 

Slowly he kneels beside her stool. “No,” he says, his muscles going lax with relief. “I’m… I was worried. When you shouted…” 

She stares at him, then claps her hand over her mouth. “ _Fenedhis,_ did I scare you? No, I dropped that stupid comb and I just heard you coming and I couldn’t be bothered…” She trails off, then a slow smile creeps over her face as she cups his cheek. “Oh, Thom, I’m sorry. I’m fine, I promise. I was just impatient…”

Then her words fade into a delighted trill of laughter. “Your face,” she giggles.

Blackwall wilts in exasperation, then roughly rubs his beard against her bare thigh before giving her leg a punishing little bite. “Arya,” he growls.

She squeaks in amusement at the nip of his teeth. “I’m sorry!” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare you. But since you’re down there picking my things off the floor, how about you polish my boots while you’re at it?” 

Her cheeky voice is overflowing with mirth, and Blackwall mock-scowls at her. “You’re not wearing any boots,” he grumbles.

“Not yet,” she says airily. “But I will be once you grab them for me.” She turns back to her mirror and carefully combs her short hair back from her face. 

He studies her suspiciously. Her lips are curled in a smirk, and she flutters her eyelashes as she meets his eye in the mirror. “Well?” she simpers.

He sighs and rises to his feet, shaking his head, and fetches her socks and her favourite ram-skin boots from the wardrobe. He places them gently by the foot of her stool. “Anything else, my lady?” he drawls.

She ignores his sardonic tone as she turns on her stool to face him. “Yes,” she announces. “Now you can help me put them on.”

Her eyes are dancing and her chin is lifted in challenge. She absolutely does _not_ need his help putting on her boots; dressing herself was one of the first things she mastered with one arm. 

Blackwall narrows his eyes. He doesn’t know her game, but as always when she innocently blinks those big amethyst eyes, he’s helpless to resist her request.

With a heavy sigh, he kneels at her feet and starts to roll her socks onto her delicate elven feet. “You are a cruel mistress, Lady Rainier,” he complains. 

She releases a bark of laughter. “Mistress!” she exclaims. “So what does that make you? My beck-and-call man?” 

He grumbles indignantly into his beard, but her merriment is contagious, and soon he’s grinning as he finishes lacing up her second boot. “There,” he says, then shoots her a chiding look. “Are we satisfied?” 

She smiles smugly at him and crosses her legs. “I don’t know if I like your tone, Ser Blackwall. I don’t think a _mistress_ would accept such impudence.” 

The purr in her voice stirs a restless wriggle of warmth in his abdomen. There’s a different kind of challenge in her face now, and it’s one that Blackwall finds very intriguing indeed. 

“What do you plan to do about it, my lady?” The growl of a question stems from his libido more than his mind, and he watches with growing interest as she leans away from him, her posture becoming arrogant as she proudly lifts her chin. 

“I shall have to think of an appropriate punishment,” she says smoothly. Then she uncrosses her legs and presses one booted foot against his shoulder, pushing him away. “For now,” she adds, “you’ll help me get dressed.” 

He obediently shuffles back, transfixed by the sinuous movement of Arya’s body as she rises to her feet. She saunters past him with an arrogant sway to her hips, carelessly letting her dressing gown slide off her shoulders to pool in a silken mass on the floor. With her dexterous right hand, she pulls her loose camisole over her head and tosses it on the floor as well, and Blackwall is transfixed by the slender dip of her spine and the lines of her shoulder blades as they shift beneath her golden skin.

She’s now clad in nothing but her smallclothes and her boots as she makes her way toward the wardrobe. Blackwall rises to his feet, vaguely in awe of how quickly his desire and his cock have risen. Slowly, as though in a trance, he makes his way toward his wily wife. 

She turns as he approaches, her eyes darting from his face to his swollen crotch, and a satisfied little smirk lifts the corner of her lips. Then she jerks her chin at her discarded clothes. “Pick those up,” she says, then turns back to the wardrobe and opens the door.

He can’t help himself: he laughs. This whole situation is just so ludicrous and so damned arousing, and he’s not quite sure how his mood shifted so swiftly from panic to exasperation to _this_ , and the incredulous amusement bursts from his chest before he can hold it back.

She turns to face him with her eyebrows raised. “Is something funny?” she demands.

Her tone is all Inquisitor, no-nonsense and commanding, and it makes the blood in his groin pulse even more strongly. “No, not at all,” he says hastily. 

She lifts her chin expectantly. “No, _what_?” 

Her stare is hot and intense, and he’s powerless to do anything but give the expected response. “No, mistress.” 

Quick as a bolt of lightning, a grin flashes across her face, then it’s gone as she resumes a stern and placid expression. “Good,” she says, then turns back to the wardrobe again. “Now pick those up and get over here.” 

Blackwall does as he’s told, lifting her clothes from the floor and carefully hanging them in the wardrobe as Arya flicks through her clothing. She’s pointedly ignoring him, and he takes advantage of her lack of attention by perusing her body with the same focus that she’s giving her clothes.

She’s too damned delectable, all slender elven curves and golden skin, with her delicate ivory smallclothes juxtaposed with her hardy ram-skin boots. Unable to resist, he reaches out and strokes her left breast. 

She jerks away from him, her eyes growing wide with mock indignation. “How dare - did I give you permission to touch me?” she snaps.

“No, mistress,” he says. Given the tone of this little game, he’s fairly sure he’s just made things harder for himself - both literally and figuratively - but the feel of her nipple against his palm was more than worth it. 

“That’s right, I did not,” she proclaims. “Now I’ll have to think of a _really_ good punishment.” There’s a thread of laughter in her voice now, and as she turns back to the wardrobe, he can see the grin spreading across her cheeks. 

He bites back his own grin, settling automatically into an at-ease stance as he waits for her next command. Finally she faces him with a navy blue button-up dress in her hands. “Help me put this on,” she commands. 

He takes the dress, but his covetous eyes slide over her mostly-bared body. “Arya,” he begs, dropping his subservient persona for a moment, “can’t we just-?”

“No,” she interrupts. “This is your punishment for now. Disobedient men don’t get the privilege of touching their wives. Besides,” she adds more seriously, “I have to meet with Cullen and Harding in five minutes.” 

Blackwall eyes her pleadingly, but Arya snaps her fingers and points imperiously at the dress. “Now,” she orders. 

He sighs, but helps her put on the dress and begins to fasten her buttons from the waist up. His fingers trace their way up the front of her dress, but as he reaches the level of her breasts, he can’t resist one last attempt. 

He peels one side of the dress away from her breast and leans in swiftly. He actually manages to suckle her nipple for one brief shining moment before she grasps the hair at his nape and pulls him away. 

“I said no,” she admonishes, but her voice is distinctly breathless and her cheeks are pink, and Blackwall stares desperately at her, his lust only sharpened by the tugging of her fingers in his hair. 

“Please, mistress…” he begs. 

She smiles, a brilliant and mischievous flash of a smile, then kisses him hard and swift. He opens his lips instinctively at the press of her tongue, but before he can move, before he can grab her or even really kiss her back, she releases him and backs away.

She makes for the stairs, her fingers and prosthetic moving in tandem to finish up her buttons. “Later,” she promises. She tosses him one last cheeky grin before disappearing down the stairs. 

Blackwall sits heavily on the bed, shaking his head with a combination of amusement and despair. His cock is pressing hard and heavy in his trousers, but he savours the pulsing of his lust. 

Arya is a busy woman. If she wants him to wait until later for the pleasure of her company, then that is what he’ll do. 

*********************

Blackwall spends the remainder of the day working with Cullen’s soldiers while Arya is caught in an endless cycle of meetings. By the time they see each other again, it’s late that night as they’re getting ready for bed. 

Arya has removed her prosthetic, and she groans in bliss as she crawls under the covers. “My mind is wrung dry,” she complains. “Remind me to take my bow out in the morning. I need some damned exercise, my brain can’t take another day like this.” 

“I will,” he promises as he pulls back the covers. But before he can slide into bed beside her, she sits up on her elbow. 

“Wait,” she says. “Go fetch me that cup of water.” She jerks her chin at her desk. 

Without thinking, he starts to do as she asks - then he stops. 

He shoots her a quick glance, and sure enough, she’s smirking mischievously at him. 

The heated memory of that morning surges back in full force, and almost instantly he’s at full mast again. “Yes, mistress,” he says.

Her smiles widens as he fetches her the cup. He slides under the covers and watches eagerly as she takes a few small sips. Then she places the cup on her bedside table and blows out the candle. “Goodnight,” she chirps into the darkness.

He stares at her supine form in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“I’m sorry, did you expect to be rewarded after your disobedience this morning?” she says. Her voice is smooth and calm, and his desire ratchets higher as she stretches her arms leisurely over her head, pulling her bare left breast free of the blankets. 

He slips his hand over her ribs and up toward her tempting breast. “Arya, please-” 

She playfully slaps his hand. “No, I said! I can’t believe -” She tuts in mock annoyance and shifts a little further away from him. “That’s another strike against you,” she says severely. “Now keep your hands to yourself.”

He drops his face into the pillows with a despairing groan. “Have mercy,” he begs. 

“No,” she says pertly. “Now go to sleep.”

There’s no chance. He won’t be able to fall asleep in this state. Feeling mildly despondent, he lies on his belly in silence for a moment longer, trying to ignore the press of his cock against the mattress. Arya is still, her breathing deep and slow, and Blackwall can’t help but feel mildly offended that she’s fallen asleep already. 

Suddenly she rolls toward him and slings her leg over his waist, pressing herself tightly against his side. Her groin presses against the side of his thigh, and with a dizzying surge of lust, he realizes that she’s wet. 

He tries to lift himself from the bed, eager to respond, but she presses her right hand hard into the centre of his back. “No,” she breathes, the denial drifting cruelly across his cheek. 

He gapes at her through the dim light of their bedroom. Her eyes are closed, but her lips are parted in a telltale sign of her own desire. “Why?” he asks incredulously, then tries to shift out from underneath her leg. “Arya, you’re sopping wet, I know you want to-”

“I said _no_ ,” she moans, grinding herself lightly against his leg. Her needy voice, her smooth and sinuous body, everything about her is a contradiction to the words that are trickling from her lips into his ear, and Blackwall presses his face into the pillow in complete and utter frustration. 

He tries to breathe, tries to calm the raging of the blood that’s pounding in his cock. Finally he turns his face toward her again. “Why are you doing this?” he asks plaintively. 

She smiles, her eyes brilliant despite the darkness. “I have an idea,” she breathes. “I… give me a few days, I’ll make it worth your-”

“A few _days?_ ” he blurts. She’s rubbing herself against him like a wild little wanton, taunting him by spreading her nectar on his thigh, and she wants him to wait for a few _days_ before savouring that sweetness?

“I’ll make it worth your while!” she laughs. She sinks her fingers into his hair, pulling gently as she presses her breasts against his side. “Trust me. Will you obey?”

Her voice is warm and breathy and impossible to deny. He groans, mashing his face into the pillow for a moment more before sighing in defeat. “Always, mistress,” he mumbles.

She laughs again, victoriously this time, then rolls away from him and onto her back. “Good,” she purrs, then stretches languorously before relaxing completely. 

He stares at her, his longing gaze tracing over the fullness of her lips and the twisted sheets concealing her naked body. Her eyes are closed, her chest rising and falling peacefully, and somehow - Blackwall truly doesn’t understand _how_ \- she’s actually falling asleep this time. 

She sighs and turns her head to the side, eyes still peacefully shut. “I love you,” she murmurs. Moments later, she’s asleep.

He smiles fondly despite his raging lust, amused by the deceptive innocence of her sleeping face. _I love you too,_ he thinks. 

Blackwall has always approved of Arya in the role of command, and he’s always been happy to obey her orders. But he anticipates that _this_ new role will be a special kind of torture at her hands.

Little does he know that he will, in fact, suffer most of this torture kneeling at her feet.

***********************

The situation escalates slowly over the next two days. 

They go about their business as usual. Blackwall works with Cullen to train the troops while Arya works with Harding and Charter and manages the small diplomatic arm of their duties for Leliana. 

It’s during the brief moments that they see each other that their private game continues. Blackwall will pass by her in the Great Hall, and she’ll order him to bring her a freshly sharpened plume. They’ll be sharing a quick lunch in the stables, and she’ll demand that he sprinkle the salt on her food. With each spurious request, each minuscule task she sets for him that she can clearly do herself, he delivers the expected response: “Yes, mistress.”

She gives him commands, and he obeys, and her answering smile grows wider every time. 

Each night, Blackwall slides into bed in an increasingly uncomfortable state. Arya has insisted on abstinence, claiming that he’s still being punished for his impertinence, but Blackwall knows she’s really just holding him off until her mysterious little idea pans out. And so they lie side by side in bed, the carnal need so thick between them that Blackwall is practically breathing it, and when he wakes each morning, he feels like he’s barely slept. 

On the third day, they’re meeting with Cullen, Cassandra, and the Iron Bull in the war room, and Blackwall makes a mistake. 

He’s standing at ease, critically inspecting the map and the markers that Arya and the others have spread across the table. Arya is speaking to Dorian through the crystal communicators they share while Blackwall and the others listen. 

“... and you know Maevaris - well, you don’t, but I think my praise has been more than colourful enough - of course she’ll downplay the danger, but they’re not even being subtle anymore. It’s quite tacky, really.” Dorian’s tone is dismissive, and Blackwall can clearly picture the disdain in the handsome mage’s face. 

Arya sighs heavily. “That’s a bloody shame,” she says. “Let’s back off on that avenue for now. Let her concentrate on her own protection. You concentrate on your other leads for now.” She runs a frustrated hand through her short auburn hair. 

“And you?” Dorian asks. “Any progress with the clans?”

Arya snorts. “Aside from my own? Not very much, unfortunately. The damned Dread Wolf is doing a fine job of making over his reputation. The Dalish we’ve approached don’t revile him as much as we’ve been taught to do.” She starts to pace restlessly around the table. “It seems that Bloody Solas has a diplomat working for him who’s far more talented than I am,” she growls.

“Probably Briala,” Cullen interjects.

“Or that weird Abelas guy,” Bull offers, and Arya huffs in rueful agreement. 

“You haven’t been completely unsuccessful, my lady,” Blackwall reasons, then addresses Dorian through the crystal. “There are doubters in every clan we’ve approached, elves who trust the Inquisitor for her past deeds. Our spies have been very good at bringing them over to our side.” 

“That is true,” Cassandra pipes in. “And the Dalish who have joined us have been very helpful to Harding and Charter so far.” 

“Yes, but it’s not enough,” Arya says severely as she continues to pace. “He’s recruiting all my people, taking advantage of our common blood to win them over. But I don’t see how he thinks he can protect them from - oh, _fenedhis._ ” 

In the course of her brisk pacing, she’s knocked over the box of strategy markers, and a handful of them spill to the floor with a clatter. She scowls as she bends over to grab them. “Thom, help me-”

“Yes, mistress,” he says, completely automatically. 

There’s a sudden silence in the room, and Arya freezes like a halla.

Dorian’s delighted voice breaks the stunned silence. “I’m sorry, I may have had a seizure. Did Rainier just call the Inquisitor _‘mistress’?_ ” 

Bull bursts into hearty laughter. “Yes,” he confirms. “Yes, he did.” 

“Maker save us,” Cassandra mutters, burying her face in her hand. Cullen, meanwhile, is speechless and pink-faced. 

But no one’s face is pinker than Blackwall’s. Struck dumb with humiliation, he looks at Arya.

She’s grinning at him, an uninhibited and absolutely _wicked_ grin, and his cheeks flame even further at the intent in her face. She helps him pick the remaining markers off the floor, then rises to her full height with that shit-eating grin still on her lips. “Let’s carry on, shall we?” she says cheerfully, then briskly asks Cassandra for the most recent report from their contacts in the Chantry. 

Blackwall is largely silent for the remainder of the meeting, speaking only when he’s addressed. At the end of the meeting, it’s decided that Arya will journey to Val Royeaux tomorrow with a small group of guards and spies to liaise with the Red Jennies and to speak to Divine Victoria directly. 

She shoots Blackwall a meaningful look as they leave the room, and by silent agreement, they head straight from the war room toward her quarters. As soon as the door closes behind them, Arya shoves him back against the wall and kisses him hard. 

She’s pressed firmly against his front, practically trying to climb his body as she thrusts her tongue into his mouth, and Blackwall happily accepts her aggressive affection. He slips his hands under her butt and lifts her up, and she locks her arms around his neck, twisting her hips fruitlessly toward his groin as she gasps against his mouth. 

Several long, frustrating, and entirely-too-clothed moments later, she leans away from him and takes a deep breath. “Put me down,” she pants. “We need to go and pack for Val Royeaux.”

“Can we do something else first?” he asks, with heavy innuendo. 

She laughs throatily and shakes her head. “I need something from the market in Val Royeaux for my plan. Just a few more days,” she insists. “ _If_ you behave yourself, that is.”

Her eyebrows are cheekily raised, and he leans his head back against the wall in defeat and closes his eyes. The lust is writhing through his body and screaming in his ears, squalling for her body like a baby squalls for milk, but he forces himself to beat it back.

A deep breath later, he provides the required response. “Yes, mistress.”

She laughs again, then kisses him once more before wiggling out of his grip, and Blackwall sadly adjusts his crotch before following her up the stairs. _Just a few more days,_ he reminds himself ruefully. 

Whatever she has in mind had better be worth the wait.

*****************

Three torturous days later, Blackwall is sitting alone in the guest apartment that’s reserved for the Inquisitor’s visits to Val Royeaux, waiting for Arya’s return. She’s in the market fetching her mystery item for this plan of hers, and Blackwall can barely leash his impatience and his need.

She’s been gone for over an hour. He’s tried distracting himself with books, sharpening his blades, oiling his armour, playing solitaire, _everything_ he can think of, but desire has pulled his patience taut like one of Arya’s bowstrings, and he can’t concentrate on anything but thoughts of her.

Finally, at long bloody last, he hears the key turning in the lock, and he watches eagerly as she steps through the door. 

The first thing he notices is the boots on her feet: knee-high, dark brown leather, and most notably of all, _heeled._

Arya never wears heels. They’re stupid and impractical, she says; she wears sturdy waterproof leather boots almost every day, and she would run around barefoot everywhere if she could, but heels? Never. Not even at Empress Celene’s Masquerade three years ago did she deign to wear such frivolous footwear.

The boots she’s wearing now are the epitome of form over function, presenting her slender elven legs more succulently than ever. With a dizzying rush of delight, Blackwall realizes that the game is on.

“Come here,” Arya commands. She points to the middle of the floor, then locks the door behind her and slides a red silk drawstring pouch off of her left shoulder. 

“Yes, mistress,” he says in a rush. He stands in the spot she indicated, then watches raptly as she places the pouch on a nearby side table. 

She keeps her back to him as she slowly sheds her coat. She tosses it carelessly on a chair, then turns to face him. She’s wearing a tailored formal dress underneath the coat, and as Blackwall stares gormlessly, she raises her right hand and begins to undo her gilded buttons one by one. 

She walks toward him slowly, the heeled boots making her hips roll like a perfectly oiled clockwork. “You’ll do as I say tonight,” she tells him matter-of-factly, and he tears his gaze from her deftly moving fingers. “I’ll tell you where and when to touch me. Is that clear?” 

“Yes, mistress,” he says. His voice is gravelly, guttural with the need that’s roiling in his belly, and he surreptitiously clears his throat.

The corners of her lips rise in a tiny smirk before she smoothes it away, resuming her stern expression. “You can beg if you like,” she says carelessly. “Maybe I’ll give you what you ask for, and maybe I won’t. But unless you’re begging, all I want to hear is ‘yes’ or ‘no, mistress’.” 

Her fingers undo the final button. Moments later, the dress is lying crumpled at her feet, and she kicks it away.

Blackwall gapes at her. Bright red smallclothes, a cropped leather bustier that laces up the front - _Arya never wears bustiers or breastbands, this is so strange, so fucking exquisite_ \- the garment pushes her small breasts up and taunts his desperate eyes -

“I bought you something,” she says, and he forces himself to inhale as she turns back to the table. He stares at the red-clad target of her ass as she turns back to the pouch on the table. 

She glances slyly at him over her shoulder. “Strip from the waist up. And take off your belt,” she commands.

He obeys immediately, her heated gaze rendering him even more desperate as he drops his clothing on the floor. She reaches into the pouch, then pulls something out.

It’s a belt, sized to fit around his waist and quite simple-looking: black leather, with two steel rings on the back. 

She hands him the belt. “Put this on,” she orders. 

He eyes her curiously, but follows her command. “Yes, mistress,” he says. 

Her smirk is very smug and _very_ heated this time. She watches as he fastens the belt around his waist, then reaches into the pouch and tosses him two more items from its silken depths.

He catches the items and studies them. They’re sturdy leather cuffs, lined with silk for comfort and adorned with a small steel ring. Attached to each ring is a small and simple carabiner. 

Comprehension slams into him with the force of a dull warhammer. The cuffs, the carabiners, the belt around his waist with the steel loops at the back… 

Blackwall has always loved Arya’s domineering attitude. He loves the idea of her tiny elven form holding his big brutish body down with ropes and rules and discipline, but they’ve only ever used ropes once before. She lost her arm within days of that single shining time, and since Arya doesn’t like wearing her prosthetics during sex, she hasn’t been able to manage the ropes with a single hand. Blackwall had idly wondered if there was another alternative, but they’ve been far too busy to pursue the thought.

But now, in the space of a week, she found the solution. And Blackwall is utterly delighted.

“I love you,” he blurts, unable to restrain himself. 

She grins suddenly, a flash of glowing happiness painted across her beautiful face. “You love me, _what?_ ” she taunts. 

“I love you, mistress,” he amends, and the smile on her face grows even further. She rubs her mouth briefly, her cheeks turning slightly pink with pleasure, then drops her hand and plants her fist on her hip. 

“Put those cuffs on,” she says, her tone strict and severe despite the flickering joy at the corners of her lips. 

He follows her order hastily, tightening the cuffs around his wrists to a comfortable fit, and when the cuffs are securely in place, she strolls slowly toward him. 

There’s a distinctly catlike slink in her step, exaggerated by the ridiculous boots on her feet, and he drinks her in with shameless appreciation as she draws close. She trails her fingers through the hair on his chest and strokes his nipple, then lifts her chin imperiously. “On your knees, Blackwall,” she says huskily.

He obeys instantly. The docile pose brings his longing gaze to the level of her navel, and his greedy gaze travels over the scarlet shape of her smalls.

She hums with satisfaction as she studies him. “I could get used to having you there. Kneeling at my feet like this.” 

“I can see that,” he taunts, his gaze pointedly on her crotch. Her arousal is already seeping through the silk. 

She _tsks_ in rebuke, and Blackwall gasps with pleasure as she tugs at the back of his hair. “That’s an awfully impertinent thing to say,” she drawls, then makes her way behind him. “Hands behind your back. Right now.”

“Yes, mistress,” he says quickly, eager to make up for his cheeky comment before. With her one hand, Arya easily clips the carabiners to the rings on the back of his belt. 

He pulls experimentally at the cuffs. His arms are comfortably supported by the thick cuffs, his biceps relaxed and comfortable, but he won’t be moving his hands until she sees fit to set him free.

The thought of her unequivocal control brings another surge of desire rushing from his throat straight down to his cock. He’s riled even further when she strolls around in front of him again, then lifts one high-heeled foot and rests it on his shoulder. 

The bold pose spreads her legs, making her wetness more evident than ever. It darkens the scarlet silk between her legs and paints the inner margins of her thighs, and Blackwall swallows hard, wanting that slippery nectar on his tongue. 

He leans forward slightly, pushing against the pressure of her foot. “Please,” he rasps. 

She laughs tauntingly. “Starting early with the begging, are you? Such a lack of discipline.” She presses her foot harder against his shoulder, her heel pressing cruelly into his upper chest with a tantalizing bite of pain. She spreads her legs a little wider, arching her back and drawing her lithe body taut.

Her fingers rise to her collarbone, tracing tenderly between her leather-clad breasts and down over her navel to the center of her legs. “Maybe I should just take care of myself,” she says smoothly. “I don’t know if such an undisciplined man can give me what I need. I have a _lot_ of needs, after all.” 

She presses her fingers against the silk, inhaling softly through her nose as she touches herself gently, and Blackwall groans. “No, mistress, please,” he says. “Tell me what you need. I’ll do as you say.” 

She smiles slowly, then drops her fingers away from her crotch and places her foot back on the ground. She turns and saunters over to the nearest wall, then leans back against it and crooks her finger at him. “Come here. On your knees.” 

He shuffles toward her, careful not to fall over despite his haste. As he makes his way toward her, she carefully pulls off her boots.

She breaks her persona for a brief second, smiling sheepishly as she tosses the boots aside. “They’re so uncomfortable,” she confesses. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, mistress,” he assures her. The heels were an exquisite treat, but seeing her like this - his barefooted elven lover, wild and free - this is _his_ Arya, and this is what he prefers. 

She grins at him, her bossy confidence restored. “Good,” she says, then points at her bare left foot. “Now kiss my feet.” 

He grins in turn. It’s such a _petty_ request, a silly thing to ask, but he follows her command, bending carefully at the waist until his lips brush her bare little toes. 

First one foot, then the other, and he lifts his chin to face her again. “What next, mistress…?”

His jocular tone fades as he takes in her face. She looks forbidding, her mouth stern and her eyes intense, and it thrills him more than he can say. 

“Now kiss me from my toes to my hips,” she commands. 

His mouth is suddenly dry, as though his tongue knows he’ll soon be tasting something infinitely more appealing than its own native juices. He obeys her demand, brushing his beard and his lips from her toes to her ankle. He trails his lips along the edge of her calf, up over her knee and higher. He lingers on the infinite softness of her inner thigh, treating the skin there to careful licks of his tongue, satisfied by her very quiet whimper of pleasure. 

He can’t resist licking the inner edge of her thigh where her leg meets her smalls, and that subtle teasing taste of her musk is enough to make him beg again. “Mistress, may I-” 

“Take my smalls off with your teeth,” she commands, the strictness of her voice now rendered tremulous with desire, and Blackwall swallows the rest of his plea. He uses his tongue to lift the edge of smalls, then pretends not to notice when she helps him to push the garment down over hips.

Bit by bit, balancing carefully so as not to tip over, he uses his teeth to pull the panties down to her ankles. She kicks them aside, then lifts one foot and rests it on his shoulder again. “Tell me what you want to do,” she demands. 

Blackwall stares at her perfectly primed pussy, swollen and slick with the strength of her desire. He might be the one who is restrained and submitting to her every whim, but the divine sight before him makes one thing very clear: Arya is just as bound as he is, just as much as slave to her own carnal needs as he. 

He might be on his knees at her feet, bound by leather straps and steel rings, but Arya is equal to him in every other way in this torrid game they play.

He stares longingly at the glory between her legs. “I want to taste you,” he says bluntly. “I’ll lick you until you scream, my lady, and then I’ll keep your perfume in my beard for later so I can remember how good I made you feel.” He breaks off, breathless and panting, his own words shoving his already-restless desire to a boiling point. 

Then he remembers the last thing he needs to say. “If you allow it, mistress,” he adds hastily.

She’s breathing hard herself, her belly tensing as she tries to catch some air, and Blackwall finally lifts his gaze from her groin. Her head is tilted back against the wall, her back arched and her right fingers clenching against the wall. 

She drags in a breath, then looks down at him, her cheeks and lips flushed with need. “Do it,” she orders. 

And so he does: he leans forward and slicks the flat of his tongue along the length of her cleft and up to her clit.

She jolts at the stroke of his tongue, her hips jerking toward him as a high-pitched moan instantly leaves her throat. “Oh gods,” she whines. 

He repeats the move, stroking his tongue slowly and firmly along the length of her cleft and finishing with a very gently flick of his tongue over her clit. She moans again, more insistently this time, and sinks her fingers into his hair. “ _More,_ ” she groans.

“Yes, mistress,” he murmurs into her pussy, and she gives a tiny sob of desirous laughter. 

He continues to lick her, a bit faster now, a bit more attention to her clit, swirling and sliding over the slippery little bud as her fingers clench more firmly in his hair. As her sounds grow more desperate, her hips more insistent as they roll toward his mouth, he wishes fervently that he had the use of his hands. He closes his eyes, pulling unconsciously at his cuffs and breathing in her carnal scent as he imagines what he’d do with his hands if he had the chance: he would feel the smoothness of her thighs beneath his palms while he lapped at her pussy. He would lick the pearl of her pleasure while slipping his fingers gently along the sensitive edges of her folds. He would sink his fingers deep, feeling the heated core of her, curling his fingers inside of her and priming her for his cock- 

Arya suddenly gasps, then releases an uninhibited cry of pleasure. Her hips rock toward him, urging him to continue, and Blackwall follows her body’s command, keeping his tongue flat and firm as she undulates against his mouth. 

A long, shining moment later, she relaxes and slumps back against the wall, and a tremulous laugh rocks her body for a moment before she pushes his shoulder with her foot. “Move back,” she says breathlessly. 

He shuffles backward obediently, his eager gaze fixed on her face as he awaits her next command. Then Arya steps away from the wall and slowly kneels in front of him. 

She’s level with him now, both of them on their knees, but her position of power is evident in the tilt of her chin and the bold arching of her back. She reaches into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a kerchief, then tenderly wipes her excess juices from his face. 

Then she surges forward and kisses him hard, her hand clasping the back of his neck. Blackwall gasps in shock and delight, and the parting of his lips allows her tongue to sink in and tangle with his own. 

Her jerks his hands toward her instinctively. He wants to touch her, to drag her close and feel her sweet curves. He’s desperate to peel away her bustier and feel the tightness of her nipples under his fingers. But the rings on his bindings clink vindictively, stopping him from having what he wants. 

He groans in frustration, and Arya smiles against his lips before pulling away. “Anything you want to say?” she teases.

He hangs his head and exhales heavily. “No, mistress,” he groans. 

“Good,” she says firmly. She shuffles back slightly and sits comfortably back on her heels, then reaches for his trousers. 

His eyes dart to her face, breathless hope rushing through his chest and his cock at the proximity of her fingers. She deftly unties his laces with her clever right hand, then reaches boldly into his smalls. 

He gasps and jerks his hips as she grasps his shaft in a firm and sudden grip. “Maker,” he bursts out.

She pumps his length once as she frees his manhood from the confines of his smallclothes, then releases him and gives him a chiding look. “That’s _not_ something I permitted you to say tonight,” she says severely. 

“I’m sorry, mistress, please - please, I just - I need you,” he blurts, helpless and shameless and desperate. He knows how primed she is, how ready she is for him, and it’s been so long, a whole entire week without her, and Blackwall _needs_ the blissful reunion of her body against his own… 

She tilts her head coyly, her eyes tracing teasingly over the throbbing length of his cock. Slowly she reaches out and runs one finger along his shaft, and Blackwall groans pleadingly. “Please, mistress, _please,_ have mercy…” 

He breaks off with a moan as her torturing finger finds a drop of moisture at his tip. She swirls her finger smoothly over his head, then lifts the finger to her mouth and sucks it clean.

Blackwall stares entreatingly at her mouth until her lips finally curve in a smile. “Fine,” she allows. Then she spreads her knees further, a clear provocation as she sinks her hips lower to the ground. 

She bends forward, supporting herself on the stump of her left arm, and Blackwall’s breaths come shorter and sharper as her mouth comes closer, her teeth gently nipping her plump lower lip as she draws near to his aching manhood - 

Then Arya takes him deep, and Blackwall groans in loud and uninhibited bliss. 

_Maker’s fucking balls_ , it has been too long. He’s wanted her so badly this whole week, wanting anything of her, any scrap of her touch that she deigned to give him, and the hot tight suction of her mouth around his cock is better than any of his increasingly fevered imaginings. Her back is intentionally arched, her ass in the air as she bends low to take him deep, and his pleasure rises and roils, pulled toward his pulsing shaft by the exquisite working of Arya’s mouth.

Her right hand is working as well, massaging his balls carefully in time with the pressure of her mouth and throat, and Blackwall flexes helplessly toward her, his eyes shut tight as he gasps for breath. His climax is coming, breaking through the storm of his lust, peeking over the precipice of his pleasure as Arya continues suckle his cock -

And all of a sudden she stops. 

Her mouth is gone, lifted away from his shaft, and her hand is gone too. Lost in the burning and torturous heat of his foiled orgasm, Blackwall groans with complete and utter frustration. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Damn it, A-” 

He almost says her name, but he clamps his lips shut and stops himself at the last second. If he says her name, the game is up: she’ll stop, and she’ll unbind him, and this torture will be over. 

And despite his aching cock, despite the aching of his fervent want for her, he’s not ready yet to end this game. 

She rises to her feet to loom over him, her eyebrows raised expectantly, and he takes another long and agonizing moment to catch his breath before speaking. “Please, mistress,” he rasps, his voice broken and defeated. “I… I need to fuck you. I - I can’t think, I - need you, _please._ ”

She steps away from him and casually inspects her nails. “I don’t know that you do,” she says musingly. “I think you need to beg a bit more nicely.” She turns and strolls toward the bed. “Get over here,” she says. 

He follows, a helpless and subservient thrall, shuffling on his knees since she did not tell him to rise. She sits on the edge of the bed and eyes him critically for a moment. Then, without moving her gaze from his face, she lifts one knee and props her foot on the bed, her other foot dangling carelessly to the floor as she arches her back and spreads her legs wide. 

“Is this what you want?” she breathes. 

From his submissive position on the floor, he stares up at her sweet slick flesh. Arya has the most lovely pussy he’s ever seen or tasted, but he’s always wanted so much more than that. It’s her mischievous grin that he wants, her warm and cheeky voice as she teases him, her full and gentle voice as she professes her love. It’s the tightness of her embrace as she wraps herself around him, holding him before and during and after the tempest of their passions has waxed and waned. 

She knows how much he loves her, and he knows she loves him in kind. But despite his desperately unsatisfied desire and his desperately pulsing cock, he’s suddenly compelled to lower his playful persona and remind her of this.

“I want _you_ ,” he tells her earnestly. “Every lovely part of you. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, my lady.” 

Arya’s heated expression softens with surprise at his tender words. She presses her knees together coyly, then offers him the sweetest smile. “Good,” she says. “Because every single part of me is yours.”

They grin foolishly at each other for a moment. Then Arya slides off the bed to her feet. “Now come on. Stand up,” she commands, her tone firm again, and Blackwall sinks back into his role, following her command swiftly. 

She crawls onto the mattress on her hand and knees. Then, while Blackwall watches, she presses her chest low to the bed and spreads her legs. 

Her back is deeply arched, her arousal trailing between her thighs in slick and shining threads. She’s presenting herself to him like a halla in heat, and Blackwall’s breath abruptly leaves him as though he’s been punched, all thoughts of tenderness instantly set ablaze by a fresh roar of unadulterated lust. 

He wants to grab her. He wants to take what she’s presenting to him, push himself inside of her perfectly presented body. But somehow, _somehow_ , he forces himself to beg and not to demand. “Please, mistress, let me have you,” he implores.

She smirks at him over her shoulder, then lowers her shoulders flush to the bed and reaches her right hand between her legs. “Beg harder, Blackwall,” she commands. “You were quite disobedient this week. You have a lot of indiscretions to make up for.” 

He stares at her fingers in abject despair as they slide smooth and slow across her fragrant flesh. She rolls her hips slowly, fucking her own fingers as she caresses herself, and he’s jealous of her fingers, covetous of the moisture that paints her hand instead of his.

Words of supplication pour from his mouth. “Mistress, please,” he begs. “Anything. I will do anything you want. I’ll make you come a dozen times, I’ll wait on you hand and foot for a week, I’ll - anything you want, just please, let me fuck you.”

“Tell me how you’ll fuck me,” she breathes, and Blackwall recognizes that tone of voice. She’s close, hovering at the threshold of her rapture, and a surge of hope renders him lightheaded: when she comes, she’ll be vulnerable, and she’ll give in to his pleas. 

Happily, eagerly, he does as she asks. “I’ll keep you on your knees,” he says, his gaze still stuck on the swirling fingers between her between. “I’ll push you down on the bed, and I’ll fuck you from behind.” 

“Yes,” she whines, her voice high and sharp with desperation. 

Blackwall takes a step closer to the bed, then bends over until his mouth is a mere inch from her pussy. Then, slowly and deliberately, he exhales, the heat of his breath ghosting across her slick and sensitive flesh.

She cries out at the teasing touch of his breath. Blackwall smiles, then straightens up and continues to speak. “I’ll hold you down so you can only take what I give you,” he growls. “I’ll fuck you hard until you scream my name, and-” 

Suddenly she gasps, releasing a feral cry that emanates from the depths of her throat, and the sound of her unfettered pleasure sets his nerves alight. He watches ardently as she writhes in rapture, and when she’s gulping for air, he delivers his demand. 

“Arya, unbind me,” he says. 

He’s said her name. The game is done. In mere moments, she’ll be _his_ for the taking. 

Shakily, still panting for breath, Arya pushes herself upright and turns to face him. Her cheeks and lips are flushed, her eyes overbright with the remnants of her climax. Without a word, without any hesitation, she unbuckles his belt with her one dexterous hand, then reaches behind him and releases the carabiners binding his wrists to his back.

The second his hands are free, he rips off the belt and grabs her, pulling her against his bare chest and kissing her with every ounce of the passion that’s been surging in his blood. 

She moans against his tongue, but he barely notices; he’s utterly preoccupied with the exquisite feel of her _skin_. Her skin is beneath his palms, so smooth and soft and _his_ , his to kiss and lick and feel, and Blackwall can’t decide what part of her to touch. Her thighs, which are framing his hips now as she tilts her chin up to meet his lips? Her back, the line of her spine, her neck?

He runs his hands through her hair, clasps her neck firmly as he licks her mouth, smoothes his palms over her waist and up along her ribs to this damned leather bustier -

He drags his lips away from hers and nuzzles the plump tops of her breasts, his fingers tugging at the laces of the bustier. The garment looks incredible, both hiding and concealing her flesh at once, but Blackwall has reached his limit for the day. He’s had enough of his wife’s body being hidden from his hands. He pulls roughly at the bustier, feeling every inch an animal. When the garment finally comes loose, he tears it away and throws it across the room, then shoves Arya flat on her back with one hand between her breasts. 

She gasps in surprise at his roughness, then cries out more sharply still as he takes her breast in his mouth, ravenous for her flesh and the feel of her pearled nipple between his tongue and teeth. He frames her breast with his fingers as he suckles her nipple, sliding his other hand up along her thigh, _finally_ feeling the slippery evidence of her need on his fingers - 

He sinks one finger inside of her as deep as it will go, and she arches her back and wails with rapture. 

He crooks his fingers, making her arch her back more deeply still, then issues his own command. “On your hand and knees,” he grunts, then slips his finger out of her heat.

Now Arya is the one who obeys, rolling instantly onto her knees, and Blackwall roughly shoves his trousers off and crawls onto the bed behind her. Exactly as he’d told her he would do, he pushes her down, pressing her chest flush to the bed with his hand in the middle of her back, forcing her legs wider to accommodate the angle. He grasps his cock in his hand, and _finally,_ after a torturous and tantalizing week of waiting, he’s sheathed inside of her, sinking deeper by the second into her glorious heat. 

Blackwall bursts out a breathless gasp of relief and curls his body over hers, pumping into her insistently as he rests his forehead on her back. Arya releases a wild mewl of pleasure, her cheek pressed to the bed and her right hand gripping the blankets. As he continues to rock into her, he presses his palm to the back of her hand, lacing her fingers between his own.

“Are you all right?” he breathes. She sounds wonderful, looks wonderful, _feels_ fucking wonderful, but he needs to be sure. 

“Gods, _yes,_ ” she bursts out. She squeezes his fingers more tightly. “Go harder,” she begs. 

Blackwall follows her command, pushing harder into her until she’s jerking forward with the force of his thrusts. His rapture has been barely reined, and it surges higher with every heated stroke of his cock.

He slows his pace to control his climax, taking her slow and hard, his lips and tongue devouring the smooth skin of her back with every thrust. Soon, Arya is twisting beneath him, trying to push back against his slowly pumping hips. “Faster,” she demands, but Blackwall holds her in place with the cage of his chest and arms. 

“Not yet,” he groans. He’s not ready yet, not ready to relinquish her glorious carnal embrace. She’s so slick and smooth, and so fucking _tight_ , and it’s been too long - watching her undress this past week, her commanding voice and her teasing smile, and tonight, staring at her while she taunted him with her body and her forbidding words - 

It’s too late. The memories alone are forcing his arousal higher still, making him barbarically eager even though he wants to linger, and before he consciously decides it, he’s fucking her fast and hard.

“Fuck yes!” she screams, clenching his fingers so tight it hurts, and he’s taking her so hard that the slapping of their skin fills his ears along with her cries, and - and - _Maker’s balls_ \- Blackwall meets his rapture with a chaotic crash, the pleasure ripping through him with hot pulses that make him gasp against her damp and golden skin. 

He drops his forehead against her back, breathing hard in the aftermath. Arya relaxes beneath him, the tension leaving her muscles with a blissful sigh. 

A minute or two later, she wiggles her shoulders. “You’re squishing me, you beast,” she murmurs. 

Exhaustion and laughter are woven through her voice, and Blackwall smiles tiredly against her skin. “I apologize, my lady,” he murmurs, then slowly lifts himself off of her and falls back on the bed. 

He watches in a happy daze as she pushes herself upright, running her fingers through her short auburn hair before turning to him with a smile. “Well. That worked out _extremely_ well,” she says. 

He grins at her, then holds out an arm to beckon her close. Cheerfully she joins him, snuggling up to his side and stroking her fingers through his beard. 

“Thank you,” he says.

She tilts her head curiously. “For what?”

“For… you know.” He waves his wrist vaguely; the cuffs are still in place. “For this. I… truly enjoy it.” He can feel his cheeks turning red, but his gaze on her face is steady and sincere.

A slow and tender smile stretches across her lips. She takes his hand and kisses his knuckles gently. “You are more than welcome,” she says. “I’ll happily bind you up and boss you around anytime.”

Her smile grows cheeky, and Blackwall grins back at her in complete adoration. Arya might have just bought these bindings today, but Blackwall has been bound to her for years. He’s wrapped around her beringed elven finger, tied as tightly to her proud and passionate heart as she is to his, and Blackwall will happily be bound and bossed by her forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Incadinkadoo and SoulRebel, my Blackwall soulmates. Love and kisses to you both! xoxoxo 
> 
> For more sub!Blackwall fluff and smut, feel free to check out [The Magic Between You and I.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14896157) Or come and [squeal at me on Tumblr!](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) I am open to Blackwall/Arya prompts ;)


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